Alphabet House

by Adler-Olsen, Jussi

  The semi-circle around Bryan didn’t seem in any hurry to disperse.

  Cautiously Bryan stretched his arm backwards and made contact with the pistol. It was heavier than he’d expected. Just above the grip he found the safety catch. No one heard him push it into place. Then he carefully pushed the barrel down between his waistband and his back and slipped on his jacket. The pain didn’t come until he pulled his hand out of his trousers again. An irrepressible moan made everyone stare at him. One of the girls put her hand to her mouth and gasped as Bryan raised his bloody hand and looked at them.

  ‘He shot me,’ was all he said, not expecting any of them to understand him.

  One of the girls began to yell. An almost white-haired young man appeared from behind the others and carefully pulled Bryan to his feet. The red patch on his back pocket was still growing, but to a lesser extent than he had feared. The shot had gone clean through his gluteus maximus, the most fleshy part of the buttock. The wounds where the bullet had entered and left the body had almost closed. The loss of blood was relatively slight. Bryan’s left leg felt shaky under him.

  Then the semi-circle retreated. The fair-haired youth shouted a few words and the rest of the group dispersed almost instantly, running down the path along which Lankau had disappeared. Then he turned towards Bryan. ‘Can you walk?’ he asked hesitantly. It was a relief to hear him speak English.

  ‘Yes, I can, thanks.’

  ‘The others will try and catch him.’ The young man looked down the path where audible shouts revealed what they were doing. Bryan doubted very much they’d find the man they were looking for. ‘I’m sorry. We seem to have made a mistake. Did he attack you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you know why?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because he wanted to take my money.’

  ‘We’ll call the police.’

  ‘No! Don’t do that! I don’t think he’ll do anything like that again.’

  ‘Why don’t you think so? Do you know him?’

  ‘In a way, yes.’

  Although the buttock muscle belongs to a group of muscles large enough to function satisfactorily despite injury, Bryan had to support himself on whatever he could when he took his first steps.

  The white-haired youth left him without further comment and rushed off after his companions.

  Five minutes later their lively chatter had faded away.

  It seemed the path leading to the gondola’s end station was longer than before. Bryan stopped after every ten steps and glanced down the back of his legs. The dark patches on his trousers were no longer spreading.

  By the time the aerial cable appeared behind the treetops he was sure the bleeding had stopped. No need to concern himself with compression bandages or hospital admittance. There were other worries.

  The first was staying alive. There was no way of knowing when, or from where, an attack might come. The only thing he knew was that it couldn’t be avoided. It was his life they were after and it was Petra Wagner who had lured him into the trap.

  The second worry was: why?

  Why had Petra Wagner lied and why was getting rid of him so imperative that they would risk it in broad daylight?

  The third source of worry was some broken branches hanging awkwardly under the bushes. The hollow in the thicket to which they pointed was almost invisible. The bushes above it closed nicely together, but the leaves were quivering in the calm air. Taking careful hold of the grip, Bryan drew out the pistol. He glanced around once more before saying anything. He detected no movement, not even over by the gondola station.

  ‘Come out of there!’ he said softly, kicking the toe of his shoe so hard against the gravelled path that pebbles flew into the foliage. Lankau got up immediately. The leaves had smeared the blood over his face, which was now almost coated with a brown film.

  Then he snarled a few words. Bryan recognised the tone of voice all too well. Despite the many years that had elapsed, his nemesis still possessed the same uninhibited meanness, just below the surface.

  ‘Speak English to me. I presume you can.’

  ‘Why?’ Aversion burned in Lankau’s broad face as he looked at the pistol. Then, as Bryan released the safety catch, the face contorted and the man instantly jumped to one side. Bryan looked at him again and then at the gun. Lankau’s reaction puzzled him.

  ‘You can be sure I’ll shoot if you do that once more. From now on you’ll follow along quietly. One wrong move, deliberate or not, and it’ll be your last.’

  The broad-faced man stared incredulously at Bryan’s lips. ‘Have you forgotten your mother tongue, you swine?’ His English was that of the skilled businessman – a torrent of words, yet precise. But his accent was unschooled.

  The man heeded Bryan’s gesticulation with the pistol. He cut a pathetic figure as he emerged from the bushes, shirt hanging out of trousers with dark stains on the knees and thin, tangled hair pushed to one side. Despite his appearance, Bryan wasn’t taking any chances. He struck his enemy twice in the solar plexus with a doctor’s authority, so accurately that the giant almost passed out. When Lankau rose to his feet again Bryan shepherded him forward from a couple of foot behind.

  He stuck the pistol in his pocket as they reached the gondola platform and squeezed himself so close to Lankau that the latter could feel the pressure of the barrel despite his well-padded back.

  ‘You keep quiet when we get into the gondola, got it?’ Bryan prodded him in the back with the pistol again to emphasize his seriousness. Lankau grumbled something. Then he turned around cautiously and looked Bryan straight in the face. The dead eye was half-open. ‘Be careful with that Kenju, you dog! It has a habit of going off at the wrong moment.’

  The man standing beside the gondola booth made no sign to reveal whether he was the ticket taker or not. When he saw Lankau’s bloody face he retreated fearfully towards the wall of the building and stood motionless.

  ‘I’m sorry, but I must get this man to the hospital. I’m a doctor.’ The man shook his head nervously. He didn’t understand what Bryan had said. Bryan pushed Lankau into the gondola. ‘He’s had a fall, you see.’ Not until the swaying gondola had passed the first stage did the man emerge from the shadows to watch their descent.

  ‘Your car!’ was Bryan’s next order, when they’d finally reached the bottom. Lankau strode across the street and took out his keys. The BMW had been given a parking ticket. A bit further on stood Bryan’s Volkswagen. It too had acquired a white slip that seemed to fill most of the windscreen. That would be the hippie’s problem.

  Lankau was allowed to drive. As they drove slowly out of town Bryan contemplated his arch-enemy in this everyday situation, and it seemed to him that Man’s deeper nature was revealed. Aside from his molested face Lankau appeared to be the normal family man. Strewn around the car was evidence of an ordinary, unworried life in the form of cigarette packs, toffee wrappings and empty soft drink bottles. Here sat an average citizen, a commonplace consumer who enjoyed the good things in life. The golf bag on the back seat spoke for itself. A Wagnerian climax had begun building the moment the ignition was switched on. Here was a murderer, a sadist, a malingerer and a Wagner fan, as well. How could Man be created in God’s image, considering how ambiguous, dishonest and loathsome human beings could be under the surface? And which individual could deny having a Lankau inside him?

  ‘Drive somewhere where we won’t be bothered by anyone,’ Bryan ordered, turning down the volume of the overture’s final movement.

  ‘So you can kill me undisturbed, I suppose.’ The stout man seemed impassive.

  ‘So I can kill you undisturbed, if it suits me, yes,’ said Bryan, making a mental note of their route.

  The sun was still gleaming as Freiburg slid behind them as they made their way out of town. A tiny child was making the most of the carefree summer, rolling, dripping wet, in the wide gutters that carried a seemingly unending stream of water alongside the pavement. A
young woman tried to catch him, practically knocking over a nun in the process.

  ‘Why have you come back? Why are you hunting us? Is it the money?’ The corners of the broad-faced man’s mouth turned downward as his cold eyes followed the traffic.

  ‘What money?’

  ‘Petra Wagner says you asked about Gerhart Peuckert. Was he the one who was supposed to show the way to us? Was he supposed to guide you to our goods?’

  ‘Is Gerhart Peuckert still alive then?’ Bryan searched for possible clues in Lankau’s face. There were none. Slowly Lankau turned his head towards Bryan.

  ‘No, von der Leyen,’ he said. He looked at the landscape before him and smiled. ‘He’s not.’

  When the houses and farms had thinned out and vineyards began to wind through the landscape, Bryan had to make a decision. Lankau had said he had more information for him. And he knew somewhere they could talk without being disturbed. There were more than enough signs that Lankau was luring him into yet another trap. Already here, only a couple of miles from the centre of town, it seemed deserted. Despite the numerous side roads and the homeward-bound traffic, each of the houses that lay set back from the main road might contain secrets Bryan could well do without.

  Every time he glanced at Lankau’s impassive face, it struck him that Kröner or Petra might have been initiated into an emergency plan whereby Lankau brought the victim straight into the lion’s den.

  Lankau was amused when Bryan asked about the farm.

  ‘Goodness no, I don’t live there. My family and I live in town. But you won’t find them there, if that’s what you’re after. They’re gone.’ Then he laughed. ‘This is my little oasis, you understand.’

  There was a ‘No Trespassing’ sign at the bottom of the road.

  Unlike the surrounding farms, the house had only one storey, though it was complimented with several wings of small, bungalow-like buildings.

  If this was a little oasis, Lankau must be a very wealthy man. It lay well off the road, surrounded by rows of grapevines small enough in number to indicate that wine production was only a hobby.

  The courtyard was shaped as a huge ellipse. Bryan ducked down and rammed the pistol into Lankau’s side the moment the ignition was switched off. Now his life depended solely on his alertness. If this was a trap, the attack could come from any direction.

  ‘Take it easy, you coward!’ Lankau grumbled, opening the door. ‘People only come around here to harvest or to hunt.’

  Already before they reached the living room Bryan struck his hostage so hard on the neck with the pistol butt that he toppled over. The room was incredibly ugly. At least 500 deer antlers decorated the walls as proof of Lankau’s ingrained hunting instinct. There were rows of carved plate racks, thick books, hunting knives and old rifles, heavy oak furniture with striped upholstery, and murky paintings with largely identical and predictable motifs displaying a wealth of nature scenes and dead animals.

  The smell was musty. People didn’t come here every day.

  The limp figure in front of Bryan lay still for only a moment. Bryan struck him again. It was important that he didn’t regain consciousness right away.

  Then Bryan stood for a long time, listening. Apart from dogs barking in the distance and the whir of tyres down on the main road, everything in and around the house was quiet.

  They were alone.

  An elongated shed stretched the entire length of the yard. Here too there were antlers, flayed hides, skulls, daggers and knives in all shapes and sizes.

  The whole back wall was a veritable hardware store, its shelves bulging with paint cans, wallpaper remains, glue pots, and boxes of fittings, nails and screws. There were also bundles of twine of the type once used for binding sheaves of grain at harvest time.

  Bryan tied Lankau firmly to a high-backed chair. He used a whole ball of twine before he felt confident that it would prevent any likely attempt by Lankau to tear himself loose.

  Although he was bound uncomfortably and crookedly, Lankau appeared quite unconcerned when he finally woke up. He looked around and merely noted that his arms and legs were tied. Then he turned his head towards Bryan and waited. For that brief moment he looked old.

  The corners of Lankau’s mouth almost reached down to his ample chin. But his eyes were ice-cold and expectant. Bryan turned around and stared straight into the glass eyes of a stag. Two of the malingerers had risked their lives trying to catch and kill him on that winter night in 1944. They’d no doubt had their reasons, but Bryan had never been able to understand what made them act the way they did. And it had nearly cost him his life.

  That was a mistake he wouldn’t make again.

  ‘Tell me everything,’ he said. ‘If you value your life, tell me everything.’

  ‘What is “everything”?’ The big man was breathing with some difficulty. ‘So that you can get hold of our money?’ He grunted with incomprehension. ‘You won’t be able to find it, anyway. It’s not exactly lying around this house in small chests.’

  ‘Money? What money? I don’t give a damn about you and your money.’ Bryan turned around and looked Lankau straight in the face. ‘You think it’s money I’m after? Has it been about money the whole time?’ He took a step towards the broad-faced man. ‘Is there really that much?’ Bryan stopped and looked calmly at Lankau, who hadn’t batted an eye. He looked like a businessman negotiating. If so, he’d unwittingly ventured into Bryan’s domain. He leaned over the bound man and stared straight at him. ‘I don’t lack money, Lankau. Your piddling amount would probably be just about enough to feed my household pets. If you ever want to see your family again, now’s the time to pull yourself together. Tell me what happened then, and tell me what’s happened since.’ Bryan sat down opposite Lankau and aimed the pistol at his good eye. ‘I think you should start at the beginning. Start with the hospital.’

  ‘The hospital!’ There was no mistaking his scorn. ‘I don’t feel like going into it. If it had been up to me, we’d have killed you there. That’s all there is to say about that.’

  ‘But why? Why didn’t you just leave me in peace? How could I have harmed you? I was simulating, just like you.’

  ‘You could’ve done exactly what you did. You could have vanished! And if you’d wanted to, you could also have betrayed the rest of us.’

  ‘But I didn’t. What would I have gained from that?’

  ‘You could have gone after that railway car, you swine!’ Lankau hissed, through clenched teeth.

  ‘I didn’t hear you; say it again.’ Bryan took a step back. Then Lankau spat at him, his face radiating contempt. The clumsy attempt left spit running down his chin.

  At that moment Bryan aimed the pistol and shot so close to Lankau’s face that the barrel flame singed the eyebrow over his good eye. Lankau stared wildly at Bryan, turned his head and tried to comprehend the sight of the almost invisible hole in the back of the chair, a couple of inches from his cheekbone.

  ‘If you don’t start telling me now what’s happened since, I’ll kill you.’ Bryan raised the pistol again and continued, ‘I know Kröner is here in Freiburg. I know where he lives. I’ve spoken with his stepdaughter Mariann. I’ve seen him together with his new wife and little boy, and I know his comings and goings around town. If you don’t tell me what I want to know, I’m pretty sure he will!’

  Instead of turning his head to look at his tormentor, Lankau sank down in his chair. The fact that his kidnapper knew Kröner’s movements and whereabouts seemed to shake him up more than the shot. Then, apparently having collected himself, he raised his head.

  * * *

  ‘Where do you want me to begin?’ Lankau asked dispassionately. He looked at the man opposite him. The man was a mystery to him. He was resting the Kenju on the back of his other hand, safety catch downward, sitting still. Lankau prayed it would stay like that.

  Right now the situation seemed quite hopeless. Lankau winced. His underarms were throbbing.

  If the man opposite him was t
elling the truth, he could know nothing about Peter Stich’s role or background. And that was a good thing. If they were to gain the upper hand, perhaps help should come from that quarter. Despite his frailty, Stich could be a worthy opponent for Arno von der Leyen.

  In all games you must set out to win time. It’s the first main rule. Arno von der Leyen would get his story.

  The second basic rule is to keep your opponent at bay until you’ve found his weakness. For Lankau, this was yet to come. A person’s greatest weakness was often to be found in the motive underlying his actions. The question was, where should Lankau look? Was von der Leyen avaricious or vindictive? Time would show.

  But the third and most important rule in all games is to keep the size and strength of your own weapons secret as long as possible. Therefore he mustn’t mention Peter Stich’s true role or identity.

  Maybe Arno von der Leyen had heard about the Postman during the long nights in the hospital. But he couldn’t know Peter Stich and the Postman were one and the same person, for the simple reason that the latter had revealed himself at a time when von der Leyen was in shock treatment.

  Bearing these three precautions in mind, Lankau could set about telling his story. He pursed his lips and studied his opponent at length. After a sufficiently long silence his nemesis leaned forward and broke the invisible barrier between them.

  ‘You can start with the Rhine,’ he said, trying to fix Lankau’s gaze as if a kind of intimacy had arisen between them. ‘I thought you were finished there. Dead and gone and vanished from the face of the earth. Tell me what happened afterwards,’ von der Leyen said, nodding encouragement.

  Lankau straightened up a bit, scrutinizing his oppressor closely for the first time. The youthful muscularity was gone; his body had deteriorated. Had he not been tied up he could quickly get the better of him. Lankau tested the strength of the twine once more and cautiously pressed his knuckles down into the armrest. ‘What happened afterwards …? Yeah, what did happen?’ Von der Leyen moved closer to him and nodded again as Lankau replied. ‘First and foremost, I had a hole in the side of my chest and had lost the one eye.’ The man opposite him showed no reaction. Lankau pressed his knuckles into the armrest again. ‘That, quite simply, was the damn situation you left me in, you swine, and yet there was nothing at all simple about it! I couldn’t go back to the hospital in that condition, especially not without Dieter Schmidt.’ Lankau’s bad eye narrowed. The skin on his guard’s neck was thin and covered with a network of blood vessels, just beneath the surface. ‘But my hatred of you easily kept me alive, do you realise that, you lout? It was a damn cold winter, wasn’t it? I’ve hardly ever seen so much snow. But Schwarzwald’s embrace is merciful. After two days I knew I would survive. Every farm or labourer’s shack has a shed or outdoor pantry in those parts.’ Lankau smiled. ‘So I managed – despite the dog patrols they sent after us. But it was bit harder for those who remained behind, you see. Especially Gerhart Peuckert.’ Lankau noted with satisfaction how von der Leyen flinched a trifle. An attentiveness he’d been trying to conceal stood out revealingly. The game had begun.